Hell's Angel
by thereasonitry
Summary: While Dean didn't expect to get pulled out of Hell...that was only the beginning. Season 4 AU. The angels don't have vessels, they have real bodies. Rated T for swearing and mentions of torture.
1. Dean Winchester is Saved

Frankly, Dean was pissed. Not because he was pulled out of Hell, because God knows, after forty years there, it's about time. Not because whoever decided he was worth saving obviously thought he wasn't important enough to hang around with after his mysterious resurrection.

No. It was because some genius thought it would be funny to make him look like a demon. Not a sadistic 'I'm-gonna-fling-you-into-walls-for-the-fun-of-it- and-laugh-at-your-pain' kind of demon (you know, the ones with black eyes and a meat suit).

No, Dean had to look like a cartoon 'devil on your shoulder' complete with horns and a tail. As if that wasn't enough, though, he also had huge friggin' wings.

The only upside to the wings was that Dean could hide them beneath his skin. Seriously. They could slide right into his back and settle their pretty comfortably. Unless they fell asleep, as wings apparently tend to do, or started itching. Then they were just a bitch.

Wait, we're getting a little ahead of ourselves aren't we? Let's back up to the beginning.

Hell, quite frankly, is one hell of a place. No pun intended. It's unlike anywhere you've ever been before, I can assure you. The entire place was like an oven permanently set to 'burn the shit out of eveything.'

It was also weird. There was an open concept floor plan, which shouldn't have worked, but it did. Mainly because there was always hellfire handy to serve as the walls, floor, and ceiling.

Basically, as bad as Dean could have possibly imagined it, was just the tip of the iceberg. One that was melting fast.

When Dean first arrived in the bane of all things good, he got the warmest welcome you could imagine. Apparently, because he was a Winchester, he would be harder to break. Damn straight.

Anyway, the grand inquisitors of the place, decided that the master torturer of Hell would have sufficient skills necessary for the task. So Dean got stuck with Alistair. For thirty years.

After something like that, not only was Dean scarred for life, he was also, albeit grudgingly, ready to accept Alistair's bargain. The 'torture other souls, revel in their pain, become a sadistic bastard like me' bargain. So he stepped off the rack...and picked up a knife.

The first soul Dean tortured, he felt bad for. The poor thing was mumbling "no...don't...please" under his breath, and trembling so much you'd think the guy was set on vibrate.

But then Dean was told his sins, and he didn't feel guilty anymore as he stabbed the man in the ribs and twisted sharply. He could hear the bones cracking from the force it, and yanked out the blade. Alistair tutted at the soul's scream of agony, and told Dean that 'he'd have to do better than that' in the future.

This went on for ten years, and by that time Alistair was laughing and clapping happily; praising Dean for his skill and utter finesse with a blade. Dean may or may not have felt good about being complemented, as he may or may not have been praised much when he was still alive.

Things quickly got very routine down in the pit. Torture a soul, make them bleed and scream until they can't anymore because they no longer have the vital parts needed to do so. Then have Alistair tell him what a good job he's doing. Rinse and repeat.

When you become a master torturer, you get your own brand. Dean wasn't aware of this, so when one day, after a particularly vocal soul, Alistair told Dean to follow him, he got suspicious. Why shouldn't he, after all, it was a break in the familiar routine of Hell.

But Dean obeyed, because that was what he did best, and walked along after his mentor through the hellfire. Dean never could figure why the stuff wasn't burning him to a crisp, but oh well.

Eventually, they reached a cave, where Alistair graciously allowed Dean Entrance first, then silently padded in himself. It was pitch black inside, but apparently torturing others in Hell gave you night vision, because Dean could see fine in the darkness. They walked up a steep incline, and reached a plateau.

Alistair gestured for Dean to go forward. Huh, guess he had night vision too, or he'd just been here before and knew where things were. Dean took a cautious step forward and promptly blacked out.

When Dean came to, he was alone and couldn't see anything. A sharp pain coursed through his back and up to rest at his left shoulder blade. Dean could soon smell burning flesh and screamed in pain when he realized it was his own.

Quickly though, the pain stopped cold, and Alistair's form wavered into view. Dean tried to concentrate, but he was dizzy and had a headache. Alistair's laughing sure didn't help any, either. The darkness claimed him once again.

This time Dean snapped into awareness instantly, to find himself being carried bridal style in Alistair's arms. Dean felt a strong spike of fear and disgust, and struggled harshly until Alistair let him go; chuckling. Dean quickly got his footing, and spun around, ready to let Alistair have it for the shit he'd pulled back there.

But the demon beat him to the punch, "that was a brand Deano, your brand to be precise." Dean sputtered, "what the hell is a brand?!" Alistair chuckled again, and Dean shivered involuntarily. "Why Dean, it's a sign of your achievement. After all, you're a master torturer, and it's only been ten years. I knew there was something special about you, Deano." Alistair smirked at him, showing a set of downright nasty teeth.

Dean didn't know how to respond for a moment, but was about to ask another question when he was rudely interrupted by a blinding white light. Dean closed his eyes against the brightness, and the last thing he heard was Alistair laughing and saying, "You can't hide forever Dean; I'll find you."


	2. But Are You Sure He's Still Dean?

After the light dimmed, Dean could see where he was, thank God for night vision. It was his grave. For a minute he did nothing, then traced lightly down a crack in the wood with a finger.

Dean had no idea why he was feeling so calm about this, but it was kind of nice. Way nicer than Hell had been, for sure. He didn't want to move, for fear of breaking the peaceful moment. But soon he had to, because he started to notice some odd extra appendages. It seemed he'd come out of Hell as Dean Winchester 2.0.

Dean made a mental list of everything he knew at the moment. First, he was trapped in a pine box at least five feet under the ground. Next, he wasn't the same man he'd been before the pit. Dean wasn't even sure if he was a man at all, anymore. Third, he had to find a way to get out of here before he suffocated. And wouldn't that just be ironic.

Dean took a deep breath, preparing himself to break out of his underground prison. He stretched his cramped leg up as far as he could towards his chest, and brought it quickly up into the wood of the top of the coffin. The flimsy pine broke easily, and Dean made a break for freedom. He tried to beat out the dirt rushing into the box, and almost ended up breathing it in.

It felt like he was swimming, except the dirt served as the water, and it wasn't nearly as fun. It was slow going, as Dean rapidly clawed his way topside. His lungs were burning fiercely by the time his head breached the surface. Dean took huge gulps of air, trying to get back the calm feeling from earlier.

But it was too far gone, and besides, Dean had bigger problems. Because of the angle of the sun, his shadow was directly in front of him, splayed across the field. Beyond his shoulders stretched two big ass wings.

They were long, starting at the shoulder blade, then curving upwards slightly, only to curl downwards and have the tips rest comfortably against the back of Dean's upper thigh.

They were black. Just think of the blackest black you've ever seen, and multiply it by black. That's how black they were. Also the sleek feathers, were, for some reason, perfectly groomed.

Dean was gasping at the wings, wondering if they were really there, when one of them twitched. Dean jumped, then berated himself, the wings were probably just self concious. He had been staring at them after all; he'd have been self concious, too. Then he realized how weird that was to think. But seriously, he's got wings, he'd like to think that lets him off the hook.

Not only those, but horns and a tail. It's like he's some kind of angel-demon-weird ass hybrid. But as far as Dean knows, angels don't exist, and demons definitely don't have extra appendages. Unless they hid them somewhere on their meat suit, but where? Okay, changing the subject.

The tail itself is probably the most odd. It was kind of like having a third arm, in the most awkward place imaginable. Dean could control its movements, but sometimes it had a life of its own.

It was long, almost a foot and a half in length, and every bit as dark as the wings. The tail was flexible, almost able to turn at any angle. The base was thick, but it thinned out as it got closer to the tip, endng in the shape of an arrowhead. A really sharp arrowhead.

It was going to be really uncomfortable to sit down anywhere, for aure, and also extremely awkward to manuvere. Gosh, and we haven't even talked about the horns, yet.

Dean discovered the horns last. Mostly because they were small enough that if he hadn't thought, 'well...I have a tail. Do I have horns?' And then checked, he would never have known they were there.

Protruding about two inches from Dean's forehead, by his hairline, and then curling inwards slightly, the horns were puny. Sharing the same black color as every other abnormality, but also being the least annoying of the three, Dean could overlook them in favor of worrying about the wings and tail.

There had to be a way to hide this stuff. Dean couldn't show up on Bobby's doorstep sporting things of obvious demonic and angelic nature. Not if he was going to blatany lie and call himself human.

As much as Dean had always loathed magic, it appeared to be the path he was stuck with. Dean remembered a certain glamour from years ago. It didn't require much in the way of ingredients, was long lasting, and it was powerful. From what Dean could remember, the only way to see past the glamour was to look into a mirror.

Mirrors almost always negated the effects of a spell, because they were known to always reflect the truth. Except for fun house mirrors, but Dean hadn't been to a carnival or 'haunted house's for years, so there was no need to worry about those.

Dean could handle all the bad luck he was sure he would get from smashing any mirrors he came across. But he was a Winchester, so bad luck was pretty much his shadow anyway. He would just have to be cautious.

Dean was jerked out his thoughts suddenly, when he realized that while he'd been contemplating how to hide his non-human parts, he'd been basically standing out in the open. Not smart.

Dean glanced around, and would have been in shock, if he was able. But after living as Dean Winchester, and waking up in his grave with things he definitely hadn't had before hell, not much could surprise him anymore.

The trees surrounding his gravesite had all been knocked down. From every angle for what looked like a mile radius. It seemed that a wave of power had shot out and taken down anything in it's path before dissipating. There were still remnants of power in the air though; Dean could sense them.

Wait. He could sense mojo, now? Well wasn't that just dandy? But hey, maybe it'd be useful later on. But Dean wasn't going to worry about it until he'd sorted out everything on the physical plane first.


	3. Glamouring Up

From the forest where Dean had 'freed himself from his prison' to some kind of civilization, it was a two hour walk. In the heat. At midday. While dragging around extra 'dead' weight. It was no picnic, let me tell you.

It was quite possibly the least enjoyable one hundred and twenty minutes of his entire life. That includes all the times he's been shot, attacked, mauled, thrown into various things, beaten up, or any other downright unpleasant experience he can't recall at this time.

By the time he reaches a gas station, he's ready to shout, "hallelujah!" To the sky. But he doesn't because his throat is so raw, he'd be surprised if he could even get the word out.

The door's are locked and Dean doesn't have a lock pick. He angrily flicks his tail, but then notices how sharp the tip is. As he hears the lock click, he's glad that at least the freaky ass tail is good for something.

He goes in, grabs some water and snacks for the road, admires himself in the mirror for a second, and hotwires a car; hightailing it out of there. All of this goes down in under five minutes.

Dean was pretty sure that he broke several laws getting to Bobby's. He can't wear a seatbelt with wings, he's driving so fast he probably broke the sound barrier a few miles ago, and the damn tail makes it impossible to get even remotely comfortable.

When Dean reaches Sioux Falls, he ditches the clunker by the outskirts of town. He won't need it anyway. Dean has no idea how he remembered the spell or the ingredients. It's like it was seared into his mind long ago, lying dormant in the back of his brain, and waiting for this day. Great, now it sounds like some prophecy.

He needs the bark of an oak tree, a bird's feather, and the purest water. Then he'll have to say the chant.

Dean grabs a slab of bark, plucks a feather from his wings, which hurts like a bitch, and brews up some holy water. Haphazardly throwing these things together, Dean silently recites the extremely and entirely unnecessarily long chant. Afterwards, he doesn't feel any different, but it's what everyone else sees that matters.

Even with his newly gained side effects of Hell, Dean feels naked without any weapons. But he grudgingly accepts that there's no way to remedy that right now.

It's getting late, and Dean really doesn't want to show up at Bobby's at night. That's like asking to be pumped full of buck shot by an irate Robert Singer. Also, contrary to popular belief, Dean really isn't that stupid.

So Dean holes up in the woods for the night. He climbs a tree and snuggles between two large branches that can easily take his weight. But, as though expecting him to fall, his tail curls tightly around one of them. Oh well, extra precaution never hurt anybody.

Dean's wings wrapped around him and instinctively fluffed up against the slight chill in the air. He fell asleep cocooned in warmth that night.

*

In the morning, Dean woke up in exactly the same position as the one he fell asleep in. After unfolding and stretching out his wings, he climbed down.

The forest is alive with activity, and reminds Dean that he needs to meet up with Bobby today. He's really not looking forward to this conversation. What'll Bobby say? How's he going to react? As far as Dean knows, no one's ever escaped Hell. Plus, what if the glamour didn't work? How's he going to explain his, uh, new additions?

Either way, Dean had to talk to Bobby. He needed to ask him where to find Sam, and Bobby would end up knowing he was back eventually anyway. That's what connections are for. But he'd be in so much more trouble if Bobby found out that from another hunter that Dean hadn't told him.

When Singer's salvage yard came into view, Dean swallowed nervously. It was now or never. But never wasn't an option. Dean knocked on the door, hoping against hope that Bobby wouldn't be home and he'd get more time to think about how to do this. But then the door opened, revealing Bobby Singer. A knife was leveled at Dean's chest. "Hiya Bobby."


	4. Walk the Walk Talk the Talk

Bobby looked at Dean with such hope in his eyes for a moment, "Dean?" Dean nodded and took a hesitant step over the threshold. "Yeah Bobby, it's me." So far, so good.

Then Bobby lunged at him, knife sailing towards his face. I take back my previous statement. Dean dodged the blade easily, managing to outmaneuver Bobby, grab the knife, and shove the man bodily away.

"Bobby wait! It's really me!" Dean held out his hand in a placating gesture, trying to simultaneously calm down Bobby, and still his flicking tail and flapping wings.

He paused momentarily as he felt the odd sensation of the wings folding tightly against his back and then sliding under the skin like they belonged there. The tail coiled but stayed in place. Bobby was watching him with wide eyes, but they were on his face, so the glamour must have been working. At least something was going well for him.

Dean sliced open his palm with the knife, wincing as he did so. Red leaked out, and Dean thought for a moment how pretty the color was, but then shook his head slightly, banishing those thoughts. He wasn't in Hell, anymore.

Bobby relaxed slightly, but wasn't entirely convinced. Dean watched as the older man reached into a back pocket and pulled out a flask. Unscrewing the cap, Bobby tossed some holy water at Dean's face. Nothing happened.

"Bobby, it's really me." Dean repeated slowly; firmly. The man Dean thought of as a father blinked, than reached out. He grasped Dean's shoulders and pulled him into a tight hug. "Oh, kid, thank God it's really you. What happened to you, boy? How'd you get out?"

Dean grinned sheepishly, "I'm not really sure. I just woke up in a pine box five feet under the ground." Bobby looked at him.

"Well...we're gonna have to call your brother and get him down here. Then we crack open the books."

Dean nodded. "Sammy? You know where he is?" The older hunter looked at him oddly, "you think after what you did, I'd let him out of my sight to do something stupid? You come outta the pit with some screws loose, boy? I make 'im call me at least once a week, 's only fitting."

Dean couldn't help but smile at that. Bobby had always been a mother hen, no matter how much the mechanic tried to deny it. "Thanks Bobby. Really."

"Go get a shower, you smell worse than some of the cars in the scrap yard. I'll bring Sam up to speed. Now go on, shoo!" Dean chuckled and made his way up the familiar creaky steps of the house he knew better than his own. It was good to be back.

When Dean stepped under the shower head though, he couldn't suppress a happy sigh. It had been years since he'd gotten clean. Not like there was a shower in Hell.

He wondered how to go about washing his horns and tail. Water seemed to slide right off the black whip-like appendage. Apparently it was water proof.

Dean just left the horns alone. They weren't dirty, nor were they big enough to collect debris. The wings were under his skin right now, and that's where Dean wanted them to stay. Besides, feathers and water didn't mix.

When Dean stepped out of the shower, he found a folded pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and a button-down black over shirt. All his size. Dean pulled up the jeans as best he could, trying not to aggravate the tail that was currently flicking erratically.

As he went to pull on the shirt, Dean noticed something that hadn't been there before. Covering his left shoulder blade was an intricately designed tattoo.

It was a crow flying, with a bleeding serpent clutched in its talons. Surrounding both animals was a spattering of runes and symbols that Dean couldn't make sense of.

Dean remembered the pain; the acid burn of his flesh as the tattoo was carved. It was the last thing he remembered from Hell. Afterwards, Alistair had been carrying him...and then there was a bright white light. Then his grave. But what did it all mean?

"Dean! Hurry up, boy! Your idgit brother was close by when I called! He'll be here in ten minutes!" Dean decided to let the tattoo issue slide for now in favor of getting dressed and waiting for Sammy.

A few minutes later he walked down the stairs and collapsed, boneless, on Bobby's couch. The older hunter gave him a glance, then shook his head and looked away. Dean knew that the questioning would start when Sam got there, but he just wanted to get into a real bed, and sleep for the rest of his life.

Dean was almost asleep when a knock on the door jolted him upright. His tail was flicking crazily, and the damn thing managed to nearly hit Bobby and gave away his secret before Dean was able to wrestle it under control.

"Where is he, Bobby? Tell me!" Sammy? Dean stepped cautiously over to the door, and was immediately faced with the slightly hopeful, but mostly cold and disbelieving, eyes and face of his little brother.

"Heya, Sammy." Bobby backed up to give the brother's some room, but was watching carefully in case he needed to intervene. "Dean?" Sam looked so hopeful, but Dean's wings and tail obviously didn't trust him. Neither did Dean.

A knife seemed to materialize into Sam's hand, and then Dean was dodging to the side with a sense of deja vu, because wasn't this how Bobby had greeted him, too? But then Bobby was there and pulling Sam back yelling, "Sam, it's really him! I did all the tests, it's really him!"

Dean took a step back, not wanting to get too close to Sam when the kid clearly wanted to stab him in the face. He wasn't suicidal. So no, he was going to stay back here where it was safe, and there were no sharp and pointy objects.

Sam was calming back down by now, and now seemed more like he wanted to hug Dean than kill him. But with Sam's bear hugs, he could end up dead either way.

When Bobby let Sam go, his little brother practically tore up the floor trying to reach him. The next thing Dean knew, he had an armful of the great wall of Sam. Gigantor was mumbling brokenly, "oh Dean...I thought you were gone forever...I tried to get you back, but no one would make a deal with me...I'm so glad you're back."

Dean rubbed his baby brother's back gently; Sam had always been a giant girl, and here he was, showing his true colors. A definite Kodak moment.

Dean just wondered how Sam would react if he knew that Dean version one had gone to Hell, and Dean version two had come back out.


	5. May I Have Your Attention?

After slaving over so many ancient texts that Dean was sure he'd die if he read another word, Bobby seemed to remember something.

"Listen, I know a psychic. Her name's Pamela. Met her on a hunt a while back. She's good at what she does, and if anyone can help you two figure out what pulled Dean outta the pit, it's her."

Dean was glad to finally have a chance to find out exactly what that blinding light had been. But he was also nervous, because what if the psychic could see through his glamour? What if Dean hadn't been freed from Hell by something good?

"That's great, Bobby. What do you think, Dean? Dean?" Dean snapped to attention at the sound of Sam calling his name. "Oh, yeah. Sounds good."

Sam was watching his older brother closely; Dean had seemed distracted since they'd reunited. He was worried about his brother, especially since Dean had told him that he couldn't even remember the pit. So shouldn't things be back to the same as they had before Dean bit the dust?

"Are you sure you're alright, man?" Dean nodded vigorously, couldn't have Sammy or Bobby getting suspicious. "I'm fine, Sammy. Just getting used to being back, is all." Sam blinked and nodded slowly. "So we'll head out to Pamela's tomorrow?"

"Sounds good. I need my beauty sleep, after all." Dean closed his book and stood up. "I'll see you guys tomorrow morning."

:::::::::::::::::::::::

Dean was dreaming. He knew there was no other explanation. He was in a white room that seemed to go on forever. If he yelled something, it would probably echo endlessly, hitting the walls, floor and ceiling. Always moving, never stopping. If this room was supposed to be a metaphor for something, Dean thought maybe it was his life. One problem after another.

"Hello Dean." A gravelly voice spoke from behind the young hunter. A shiver went down Dean's spine, and he could sense the power buzzing in the air. Dean whipped around, and came face to face with a man. At least, he thought it was a man.

The 'man' was fairly tall, but still a few inches shorter than Dean was. He looked to be young, around thirty, and wore a tan trench coat. Underneath it was a standard black suit, complete with a backwards blue tie. The 'man' also wore black slacks and dress shoes.

His eyes were as blue as the sky, and nicely complimented his raven black hair, which was the only part of him that was ruffled. It looked like the dude had been in a windstorm, but only his hair had been blown around.

"Who are you?" Dean called out, subconsciously moving into a defensive stance. The 'man' looked at Dean with a serious expression. "My name is Castiel. I am an angel of the lord." Dean snorted. "Yeah? Try again, there's no such thing as angels. What are you, really?"

Castiel cocked his head to the side, staring intently at Dean as though trying to figure him out. "I am an angel. This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith." Dean blinked at the self-proclaimed angel, "I have plenty of faith, just not in God. What are you supposed to be to me, anyway?"

"I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition," Castiel stated seriously. Dean just looked at Castiel for a moment. "Why did you do it?"

The 'angel's took a step towards him and narrowed his blue eyes slightly. "You don't believe you deserve to be saved." It wasn't a question.

Then Castiel backed up again and straightened, as though preparing to say something of great importance. Maybe he was. "Because God has work for you."

::::::::::::::::::::

When Dean woke up the next morning, his conversation with Castiel haunted him. He tried to convince himself that it was only a dream, but it sounded hollow. Dean knew that he'd really been speaking with the one who'd pulled him out of Hell.

He remembered how much power the being had given off. Whatever it was, because Dean still wasn't going to go its word alone, it had been strong enough to 'raise him from perdition.' Who knew what else it could do.

The drive to Pamela's was done in silence. Dean spent it thinking about everything that had occurred recently, and Sam was content to just sit in silence, happy to have his brother back. They were following Bobby, who was driving one of his beat up old pickup trucks.

Eventually they stopped at a small house. It looked normal enough, and when Bobby pulled up to it, Dean parked there, too, then killed the engine. He and Sam walked up to the porch, where Bobby was already waiting for them. One door bell ring later and the front door opened.

A woman of average height greeted them. She had long, black hair; the ends curling and nestled against the middle of her back. She seemed like a 'live life to the fullest,' sort of person, with her blue jeans, tank top and tennis shoes.

"Bobby. It's good to see you, old man. These the boys you were talking to me about? Cause you never said anything about them being handsome. C'mon in, guys." Dean found himself liking her already.

She led them to another room, where Dean assumed she did most of her psychic stuff. A wooden round table stood in the middle of the room, and had a burning candle in its center.

Pamela gestured for them to take a seat, and then settled herself at the head of the table. Or where the head of the table would be if it wasn't round.

She made Dean sit next to her because he was the one she was reading. "I'm gonna need to see a mark from what pulled you out, or a scar from Hell. I get a better reading if I have something physical, its a clearer picture."

Dean nodded, and pulled his shirt over his head, exposing the brand on his shoulder blade. He heard Sam's intake of breath, and turned around to see all three of the others staring at him with wide eyes. Did his glamour wear off?

"Dean...how did you get that tattoo?" Sam's voice wavered slightly, as though he was either scared or just really shocked. Dean hoped it was the latter.

"I, uh, it's a brand. But I'm not sure how it got there." 'Please let Sam believe this and not push,' Dean thought. He was relieved when his brother nodded and seemed to be dropping it for now, at least.

Dean sat back down, but jumped slightly when Pamela laid a hand over the brand. "Sorry, its a little sensitive," Dean offered as an explanation. The psychic nodded, all business, and began to chant.

It took about a minute for something to happen. Pamela opened her eyes and turned towards all of them, "he says his name is Castiel."

Dean's heart skipped a beat.

Pamela went back to her chant, which now had the name Castiel in it. His mind slowly starting to translate the words, but they were foggy, as though Dean had always known them, but they were only now coming to the forefront of his mind because he needed to remember them.

It was an odd feeling, to say the least. Especially since his tail was busy flicking for the entire duration of the chant.

Eventually, Pamela stopped chanting, and lifted her hand from Dean's shoulder. "He won't let me see him fully, but I was able to glimpse a trench coat. He's wearing one, for sure."

They all stood up, and Dean pulled his shirt back on. Bobby stepped forward, "thanks Pam. I owe you one." The psychic shook her head, "don't worry about it, Bobby, you're a friend, and friends help each other out. Now, with that name, you boys can summon up this Castiel. But be careful, you don't know what you're dealing with yet. But it's powerful, for sure."

After saying goodbye to Pam, the trio hit the road and once again heading for Bobby's house. If they were going to summon Castiel, they'd need to be prepared for anything.


	6. First Flight

Once they were back at Bobby's, Geek boy, er, Sam jumped into another huge pile of research. Bobby joined him, leaving Dean to either make it the research trio, or go out by himself for a while. Dean chose to leave.

He made sure to walk deep enough into the scrap yard to ensure that he wouldn't be noticed by prying eyes. Dean rolled his shoulders, releasing the dark wings from beneath their prison under his skin. They slid out and through his shirt and jacket like the clothing wasn't even there.

He flexed them and the tail; they'd been cramped by the long car trip. He'd had that cramped feeling a lot since his return from the hot box. Especially in cars, even his baby. It had given him the idea to test out his extra appendages, and see just what he could really do with them.

Dean already knew that he could sense when something powerful was nearby, he got a slight twinge whenever he was around Sam, which he assumed was the demon blood. He'd also felt it by his grave, and when he'd spoken to Castiel.

Dean stretched the black feathers, extending his wingspan out to full length. It was amazing how small these huge wings could seem when they were hidden or folded against his back. The tail was flicking again, probably in anticipation, but Dean wasn't sure. The thing had a mind of it's own most of the time.

Concentrating, Dean thought about flying. Birds soaring across the sky, wings fluttering slightly in the breeze. He began to flap the wings, making sure to move the entire wing, not just parts of it. Dean wanted every feather to catch the wind.

When Dean's feet left the ground, and his wings caught a particularly strong gust of wind, he let out a surprise yelp. Dean quickly muffled the sound, and hoped that no one had heard him. He kept on flapping and gaining height until soon he was soaring just like the bird's he'd always seen.

Dean was honestly surprised that he'd been able to get into the air on his very first flight. It was almost like he'd done it before. It felt natural, to be up in the air, floating on clouds of air.

It was relaxing, flying. There was nothing up in the sky but Dean and it was silent, calming. When he finally thought to check his watch, he realized his flight had been going on for far longer than he thought.

Folding his wings and descending into a deep dive felt natural. Snapping the appendages outwards at the last possible moment before impact seemed like something he did every day. The only problem arose after Dean landed. He had no idea where he was, but it wasn't Bobby's. That much he knew for sure.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Since Sam and Bobby would be worrying about where he was by now, Dean knew he had to think fast. It had been over three hours since he left, and he hadn't taken the impala, so the research duo could be out looking for him right now.

Dean took a deep breath and examined his surroundings. Trees, trees, and more trees on all sides. Another forest, great. Wait...maybe this could work in his favor. He could test to find out what powers he had, and see if one of them would prove useful in helping him return to the salvage yard.

Dean sat on the forest floor and calmed himself down. He'd been a master of his emotions for as long as he could remember, and Alistair had only managed to improve his skills. His new poker face was fool proof and nearly indestructible. It would take far more than it used to, to get Dean to show anger or fear or panic.

Dean closed his eyes and pictured Bobby's house clearly in his mind. The rusted cars, the old house with physical signs of age and creaky steps. Even Bobby himself, the gruff mother hen and alcoholic extraordinaire.

Dean heard a swooshing sound, and opened his eyes. He was back at Bobby's. Huh, guess he could add teleportation to the quickly growing list of things he could do.

He paused momentarily to tuck his wings back under his skin before bursting through the front door. Sam the giant stomped over to him, "Dean, where the hell have you been? Bobby and I looked for you for at least twenty minutes. The impala was here, so you couldn't have gone very far. Where did you go?"

Dean opened his mouth, trying to think of something believable to tell Sam, when Bobby saved him from having to answer. "Sam, did you find him? Oh, there you are, boy. What were you thinking, leaving like that for so long? You nearly drove your brother and me mad with worry! Now, we found the ritual to summon this thing. We need your help with it."

Bobby walked swiftly towards his desk, and swiped the book off of it. The older hunter shoved the tome into Dean's hands and looked at him expectantly. The elder Winchester looked down at the writing. It obviously wasn't English, but Dean recognized the runes. He could read them, too, but thought if he said so, Bobby and Sam would re-do all of the tests to make sure it was really him.

"So...what does it say?" Dean asked, trying to sound disinterested when really he wanted to curl up in a comfy chair and read the entire volume by flashlight or candlelight. Dean had contracted the reading virus at a young age, but never acted on his urges because Sam was supposed to be the bookish and smart one.

Sam looked at him like he was an idiot, and Dean longed to show his brother just how smart he really was. He knew he couldn't though, because Sam would become suspicious and Dean couldn't afford his little brother whooping around.

"Dean, it's the ritual. It says we need holy water mixed in a bowl with blood cut using a blessed object. Bobby has some blessed knives, so we'll set up the ritual, and then cut ourselves over the bowl."

"Sounds good, Sammy. Better get on that, huh?" Dean walked away from Sam; going to gather the necessary ingredients for the ritual from Bobby's kitchen. He filled a large glass bowl with water and then blessed it, making the holy water. He asked Bobby where to put the holy water, and Bobby suddenly grinned. "Oh, I almost forgot to show you boys the panic room. Follow me."

Bobby led them along a corridor near the back of the house, and at the end of it was a large reinforced steel door. Bobby gripped the handle tightly and twisted, revealing a circular room. "What is this, Bobby?" Sam asked, curious.

"This is the panic room. All the walls and ceiling are made with a layer of salt. That fan up there 's in the shape of a devil's trap. Basically, this room has protection of anything supernatural you could ever come across."

As the brothers stepped into the room, Dean extended his extra senses, checking for anything that might ward against him and keep hm from entering the room. He was pleasantly surprised when his search didn't bear fruit, and quickly followed Sam. "When did you have a chance to do this, Bobby?" He asked.

The mechanic shrugged, "I had a weekend off." Dean couldn't help but grin. "Bobby, you're awesome. Now where do I put this bowl?" Bobby jerked a thumb over to the small desk by the wall, and Dean nodded. He made his way over and set down the holy water, and returned to the others.

The trio was able to quickly set up everything for the ritual and in no time at all, it was ready. "Alright Dean, you call this Castiel, whoever that is. You're the one they pulled out of Hell, anyway." Dean nodded at his brother, and took the sheet of paper handed to him containing the translation.

He cleared his throat, and began...


End file.
